Ephemera
by LynnAshe
Summary: Racing against the clock to save a boy abducted by a ring of sex traffickers, Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss find a hoard of images and videos going back twenty years.  One of the faces is familiar: Dr. Spencer Reid.  H/R slash. Rated M. Kink Meme VI prompt.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Property of CBS et al.

**Warnings:** BDSM images. Issues of consent. Smut. The word "ravish" used in all seriousness.

**Spoilers: **2x15, 2x16, 5x1, 5,9, reference to dialogue in 7x4 Painless. Plays fast and loose with early S7 timelines.

**Author's Note:** This must have been a zombie prompt, because it ate my brain. Chapter breaks, quotes, and copy editing added prior to publishing here. Love, hate, indifference? Please review. 5-shot. Complete.

From a prompt at the CM Kink Meme VI:

_The team is investigating a ring of sex offenders, specifically, child pornography. Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss break into a house and make an arrest, and they find dozens of photo albums, dating back more than two decades. One of the team is flipping through one, and they find a suddenly very familiar face: Spencer Reid. The three of them conceal all the pictures to protect his reputation._

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><p><strong>Ephemera<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

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><p><em>What <em>_ills __from __beauty __spring__.  
>-<em>Samuel Johnson

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><p>They were supposed to be in Quantico, on a two week stand down.<p>

Not here at the edge of Vegas, too busy tearing through files and photographs and stacks of video discs and less modern tape to note the Mojave shimmering in the heat outside the window. Not here, in this rusted trailer filled with glossy eight by tens in black and white and grey with half a plate of scrambled eggs darkening the sink with mold.

"I thought team three was taking _those_ cases," Spencer had said, not saying _child abduction _or_ pedophile _because Jack was between them, and the half eaten slice of pizza with the pepperoni slices picked off. They had spent the morning watching the arcs of light from the new Tesla exhibit at the Smithsonian streak jaggedly from coil to coil. Watching each the other illuminated by those flares, and-on Aaron's part, at least-wondering when friendship changed into something that had him fumbling and uncertain, as though he had never been in love before.

_A__ crush, _he corrected himself, watching Spencer's long fingers tap out some restless pattern on the seam of the table. _One that would horrify your coworker if he knew. _Because as far as he could tell, Spencer Reid was almost asexual save for the passing interest in slender blondes. He spent all his passions on ideas and logic until there was nothing left. For the first time, this perception brought an ache to Aaron's chest.

"Does this mean you're not coming to Aunt Jessie's picnic?" Jack had broken into his reverie, looking up from the activity sheet where he was coloring everything blue-it was his favorite color today- and pausing. Jack and Spencer were both staring at him, so much trust in their eyes Aaron was hard pressed to keep his breath steady.

"Not today, buddy," he had said, and cleared his throat. "You'll get to have a sleepover with your aunt, and the two of you will have a great time even though I can't be there."

"I know," Jack nodded and returned to his coloring, waiting for Aaron to make the calls to the team. The ache in his chest deepened. _When did this get to be a routine? When did he stop asking me not to leave?_

Not until they were walking back towards the car, Spencer frowning only when he heard they were going to Vegas-_ah, but that makes sense, he'll probably go visit his mother-_did Aaron feel something brush the back of his hand. Startled, he glanced up, and Spencer's eyes were hazel and wide and understanding, and his hand was brushing Aaron's until their knuckles interlocked like puzzle pieces. The touch was intimate in a way Aaron would not have anticipated, and not only because Spencer just did not _do _touch.

Something warm, amused-_happy_-had crossed Spencer's face.

And Aaron had realized he was not alone with this fumbling uncertain feeling.

But there was a case. _Always a case_, he heard the hiss of Haley's remonstrance, and the only difference was that after they dropped off Jack, rushing over to Spencer's apartment for his go bag, Aaron could tell him the boy was only 11, and there was video, and that he was dying. And Aaron could see the focus like his own turn Spencer's attention inward and grim, and watch urgency inform the flurry of motion as Spencer retrieved his bag, climbed back in the car, and told him, "Go."

So these revelations would have to wait, because the desert heat is hammering against the side of the metal trailer and Aaron has a sharp thin pain starting behind his left eye. "God," he says, when he flips to another image. This child is older, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and there is an impossible amount of blood splashed across the expanse of his stomach and on the metal cuffs binding his hands to the headboard of a bed. _Spencer would know if it were possible for him to still be alive, when he's lost so much-_

But Spencer is at the station, placing thumbtacks and string over a map in a frantic effort to find more places where this predator, Peter Gabriel, might be hiding the most recent boy taken. And Aaron is glad, because Spencer's memory will not have to find distractions from the awful images they are cataloguing. "_God."_

"I don't think God has been here for a long time," the CSI replies, her voice is low and she looks even younger than Spencer. She swallows and Aaron watches her strip off her gloves as she steps back to the door. "I can't-I can't-"

When she leaves, Aaron understands, although he cannot condone. "Keep looking," he urges Prentiss and Rossi. He tugs at the shirt plastered to his chest with perspiration and considers loosening his tie as he pulls another stack of photos close.

"Of course, Aaron," Rossi says.

"There's got to be some detail, something in the background that will give us a clue as to where he's holding these boys." Prentiss' mutter is only just loud enough to be heard as she rifles through another stack. Many of these boys are the same age as Declan. That is not enough for Aaron to tell her to rest her compartmentalizations, and join Spencer at the station.

They continue, photo after photo, until all Aaron can see is the spray of blood and cool metal, and the sun is too high to slither through the window anymore. He is about to tell them, even though this Benjamin Good, this boy they are trying to save, may only have hours left if they do not find him-he is about to tell them to take a break, get some coffee, come back with fresh eyes, when Rossi makes a low sound.

"Aaron." Grey, with worn edges and cracked old silk a violet line running over the cover, Rossi holds an album in his hands.

"That's different," Prentiss says. She takes the album, Aaron can see the same shades of grey but no details as she with casual ruthlessness thumbs through the pages. Her movements slow, though, and her jaw loosens as her gaze flicks up to Aaron. She and Rossi are both staring at him, in a way that hints this case has moved beyond tragic to personal.

He takes the bound images from them, face set. _Is it a younger boy, Jack's age?_

But the boy in these images is older. Older than Jack, certainly. Older than any of the others immortalized on film in this trailer.

Anger was something he knew how to control. Grief as well. So there is no challenge, really, to lifting his head when he has flipped through the last of the pictures to meet Rossi's and Prentiss' eyes. "This changes the profile," he says. His words are neutral, bland, and they make Prentiss flinch. "We need to get back to the station and speak with Peter Gabriel again."

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><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>"Spence is in interrogation three with Gabriel," J.J. says, abstracted as she sits in the conference room the BAU has appropriated. "I tried, but the guy wasn't going to talk to me. He keeps saying we're missing a piece of the puzzle. I've been going over the coroner's reports from the last two victims, but- Did you find something out at Gabriel's place?"<p>

The air blasting from the air conditioner above Aaron's head, that felt tepid when they returned from the motel this morning, is almost painful against the way his skin burns from the heat in the trailer today.

"Something," Rossi agrees, as he takes a chair across from hers. Morgan hands him a bottle of water. "Aaron, do you want to close the door while we hammer out the rest of the profile?"

"But we already gave the profile," J.J. says, faltering when her gaze meets Aaron's. She darts a look at Prentiss, who only shakes her head.

Aaron makes an effort to smooth his gaze. He has the album tucked beneath his arm, and he handles it gingerly, like a bomb. Neither Rossi nor Prentiss had said a word as he removed it from the scene, without labeling or bagging or any of the other procedures necessary to have the item eventually logged as evidence. If it came to a trial.

Perhaps there is some wishful thinking that Gabriel would choke on a bagel, and die, or accidentally get shot, and die, or any number of equally fatal misadventures.

The thought is not amusing at all.

"I need to speak with Dr. Reid." Even though his voice sounded far away, he is calm, and the alarm in J.J.'s face fades. "Interrogation three, you said?"

He turns and leaves, while behind him mutters from Rossi and Prentiss crescendo against the interjections from J.J. before he closes the door. The only sound left is the impersonal chatter of the LEOs and ringing phones. Aaron straightens his tie.

He is not surprised to discover the camera and voice transmission turned off when he stands behind the mirrored glass for the interrogation room where Gabriel sits. Even if the slim line of Spencer's back were not towards him, Spencer could not know he is here.

Gabriel does not look like a monster. He is, Aaron judges, two or three inches shorter than Spencer, and broader, dressed in a pale green polo shirt with heat and sweat dampening brown hair against his forehead. His left hand is cuffed beneath the table, leaving only the right free for gesticulations.

In contrast, Spencer's shirt is blue and dark, and his cropped hair curls over his scalp like flame.

There is an aborted lift of Spencer's arm, as though he wants to run his fingers through his curls, or tap a Fibonacci sequence against the side of his chair, but refuses to display any uneasiness to the man he interviews. Not until Spencer's left hand wraps into a fist, beneath the table where Gabriel cannot see, does Aaron turn the voice transmission back on.

"-Didn't do it," Gabriel is saying. "You know I could never hurt someone, not so it would last. There were never any scars. Don't you, Spencer? Spencer-"

"Dr. Reid," comes the low correction, cold. "If you didn't murder those boys and abduct Benjamin Good, why did we find evidence of said abductions at a property listed under your name?"

"_Spencer,_ I don't know!" Gabriel explodes out of his chair, reaching-_lunging_-for Spencer.

Before Aaron can pull SAIC Aaron Hotchner around himself and burst in, demanding Gabriel _sit__ down_ as he ensures Spencer is safe, Spencer has eeled back out of his chair and is facing Gabriel. He stands just out of arm's reach and lifts his chin as Gabriel stops, panting and frustrated.

"Spencer, you're still beautiful," Gabriel says, and Aaron would have thought he imagined the faint shudder that traveled up Spencer's back, if not for long association and years of experience as one of the country's most elite behavior analysts. "I know you never thought so, but you are-"

"You told J.J. you would talk to me. I'm here. Did you have anything to say, or-"

Gabriel falls back into his chair with a huff. Something glints in his eye, not laughter. "I didn't do it. But I think-but I know who did. You want Benjamin Good? Show me, Spencer. Show me what a beautiful boy you are."

There is a pause. "The power dynamic at this juncture indicates-"

"That's my deal. Take it or leave it. _Spencer." _The last word is a whisper, a caress, obscene.

When there is no immediate response, Aaron realizes he has let this go on for far too long. There is a second, barely perceptible shudder that courses through Spencer's frame; he bows his head. Enough to tell Aaron that pain or memory has blurred things too much. Of the strategy trees cascading through Spencer's mind, he is considering that _this-_whatever Gabriel wants_-_may yield the most favorable outcome.

What Garcia has termed Aaron's Glare of Death is almost as substantial a shield as his suit, as sharp as the retort of a gun. He invokes that now, and he turns the doorknob of the interrogation room with movements that are abrupt in their precision.

"Dr. Reid," he says.

Another pause, as though Spencer does not hear.

"Dr. Reid, we need you in the conference room."

Raising his head and turning, Spencer turns a serene visage on Aaron. "Of course, sir.

Aaron holds the door for Spencer to precede him out of the room, and the door closes behind them on Gabriel's laughter.

Spencer raises no protest when Aaron ushers him, not to the conference room, but to a small empty office at the side. Aaron closes this door also. Silence folds around them.

"Have a seat, Dr. Reid."

There is no response. Spencer's attention is fixed on a crack in the wainscoting, and he runs the fingertips of his left hand over his lips while his right arm coils around his waist in a self-hug.

Aaron sighs. "Dr. Reid," he begins again, sitting in one of the chairs beside the desk, "Would you explain the difference between a hebephile and an ephebophile?"

Spencer's eyes flick up. "Oh. Um, hebephilia denotes an individual who feels sexual attraction towards adolescents in early puberty, generally between 10 and 11 for female victims, 11 and 12 for males." More focused now, although he will meet Aaron's eyes for only a few moments at a time. He perches on the edge of the chair next to Aaron's, right knee bouncing.

"They may range in their preferences to adolescents as old as 13 or 14. However, at this point, one needs to distinguish the hebephiliac from the ephebophiliac, who experiences sexual desire targeted at adolescents in late puberty, generally females aged between 14 and 16, and males between 14 and 19."

As the lecture continues, Spencer calms, until his hands still, the remnant of a stutter diminishes. Aaron has mastered these techniques of playing out the tangents of intellect against the abundance of energy. Gideon's technique was endless rounds of chess. _If Gideon was an asshole, what does that make me?_

Not until the topic has veered from a biography of Oscar Wilde to an analysis of the symbolism in "Ode on a Grecian Urn-" "The _point _of the poem is that the lovers are immortalized as images on clay, yearning and following one another with an affection eternally reciprocated-"

"Reid," he breaks in, gently. Despite his efforts, there is a sharp click as he lays the album he has been holding beneath his arm all this time out on the desk beside them.

Spencer shifts and glances at the grey cover and the violet cracked silk of the ribbon across the front.

Were it not for the reactions of Rossi and Prentiss earlier, Aaron might have doubted his memory. If this meant anything at all surely there would have been more expression than-

Abruptly the color drains from Spencer's lips, and his nostrils flare, and his head dips forward slightly.

"Reid, _Reid_," but there is a hand, balanced in the air between them, and after what he has seen the last thing Aaron will ever do is touch Spencer without permission.

They are silent while Reid breathes, and flexes the fingers of his left hand, and regains a little of the color in his face.

When he has recovered himself, somewhat, Spencer reaches out and flips back the album cover. The images captured here, Aaron cannot help but note with a pang, are very different from the "fair Attic shapes" of Keats' Ode.

"Did you know," Spencer breaks the silence at last, and his voice has the brittle edge that Aaron heard first after Georgia, "That 62% of individuals engaged in prostitution report being raped?"

"You should have told me this case would be a problem for you before we flew out here," Aaron begins. "We could have had you stay in Quantico with Garcia-"

A sharp glare makes him stop; when Spencer speaks, though, his voice is quiet. "I never told him, _No_," and Aaron chokes.

"_Could_ you?"

"It was a transaction." Spencer takes a breath. "I was over the age of consent, you know. But it wasn't even, really, about sex. He got something he wanted, I got the income for another semester of my chemistry program and three months' mortgage for my mom."

There is something Aaron is supposed to say, here, but SAIC Aaron Hotchner envelopes him in bureaucracy. "We can have you fly back commercial and join you when we-"

"_Aaron_," and the brittle edge is more pronounced. "I can contribute on this case. I didn't know about _that_," a long finger angles to the grey album, "But that is a variable in the profile that we now have sufficient data to account for. Gabriel may still talk to me, and the geographic profile will be better here and now rather than through a Web camera tomorrow morning.

"I told you these things," Spencer continues, his eyes a challenge, "Because, Aaron, I thought you needed to know."

And it is true, Aaron had given him ample opportunity to conceal what he could, and there were more chances Spencer could have taken on his own.

Spencer runs fingers that scarcely tremble through his hair. His exhale shakes. "Do the others know?"

"Rossi and Prentiss found this. They've probably told the others."

"Okay." He nods to himself, stands, stops. "Okay."

The fear that Spencer will say, _I'm fine_, if Aaron asks keeps him silent.

"We'll talk more when we get back," Spencer says as he moves to the door, and for a moment the memory of pizza and Tesla is resurrected between them.

"Yes," Aaron agrees, and the moment is gone.

This time Aaron is left behind the closed door. He is left alone with the grey album that seems the manifestation of every human ill laid out beside him.

This is the only image where the boy is not bound. He looks impossibly young. It is the last of the images, and the suffering of all the previous pages is writ on his flesh in raw and weeping letters.

Above the spot where he is crumpled to a concrete floor, heavy manacles dangle at a height that would have kept him stretched and precarious. Lacerations and welts writhe around the portion of back and flank visible, littering across the concave dip of his lower abdomen and mixed with streaks of ejaculate. The right side of his face is pressed to the ground. Around his eyes, there is, as of yet, no faint tracery of smile lines to inform the watcher of his character. And from both corners of his mouth, creases run where a gag has been removed.

The boy's eyes are closed. He looks as though he will never open them again.

Aaron rubs a hand across his own eyes, unsurprised to find that he is weeping.


	2. Chapter 2

See Chapter One for disclaimers.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

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><p><em>All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.<br>-_Gabriel Garcia Marquez

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><p>"I'm telling you, it explains a hell of a lot," Morgan is saying to the others, voice low, as Aaron reenters the conference room.<p>

They spring back where they are huddled together, and watch Aaron. None of them asks to see the grey album he has once again tucked beneath his arm.

"Gabriel has to have a partner." Rossi leans back in his chair, eyes narrowed as Aaron takes the seat beside him. "There are two distinct preferences evident in the photos we looked at today. At least two."

"Is someone going over the tape?"

"One of the CSI techs," Morgan supplies. When Aaron at last relinquishes the album to the table, Morgan edges away from it. The others pretend not to notice. "All the victims are male, none older than thirteen or fourteen."

"None of the tapes we've seen so far are snuff," Prentiss offers.

No one replies.

"Have Garcia check the addresses we have again for joint titles, business partners, anything that could be a property Gabriel's associates have access to."

They sit in the conference room as twilight gathers, eating Chinese takeout with a desultory air until more than half is left to congeal on the windowsill.

At full dark a detective walks in. He licks his lips, and hovers at the periphery of their group. "One of my CSIs," he begins, "One of my CSIs said you removed a piece of evidence from the scene. Agent Hotchner, since the chain of custody is still intact, we may be able to get this admitted if there's a trial."

Prentiss is gripping a chopstick and staring at the detective.

Not wanting to think about what he might be warding off, Aaron stands and clears his throat. "I appreciate that, detective, however, this particular piece of evidence is vital to our construction of an accurate profile. In order to fully support your investigation, we need every tool at our disposal."

The detective narrows his eyes, and when his glance flicks to the album on the table he licks his lips again.

Aaron realizes that somehow, the detective has found out the contents of these pages. He tries not to loom. _Remember that you're good friends with the state attorney general in Nevada,_ he whispers to himself. _Retribution doesn't have to be physical._

They are quiet when the detective leaves, for a time. Then, "I'm going to check on Reid," Aaron announces. He looks at Prentiss and Rossi, who look back. "I'll be back in half an hour."

He does not look at the album left on the table as he exits.

Of course he does not check on Spencer. If Spencer needs time to process, Aaron knows another part of his mind is busy with the geographic profile and all he will need to do is write it down for the others.

When the detective reappears in the conference room an hour later, Aaron tries to glare at Prentiss when she flutters her eyelashes. "Oh, one of your CSIs was in here...I think? About forty minutes ago. She took it. I think."

A howl echoes from elsewhere in the station as the detective fights disappointment from his eyes. "Tony, what did you do? The garbage disposal's broken again."

The detective swears as he leaves.

When Aaron turns back, Rossi is smirking and Prentiss is bouncing on the balls of her feet, looking pleased. "Remind me to put letters of commendation in your files when we return."

"No idea what you're talking about," Rossi preens, "And with plausible deniability on the line, I never will."

"I just didn't want to have to hide the body after I murdered him. With a utensil."

"Definitely would have stained your blouse." J.J. pokes Prentiss. "What would the dry cleaner say?"

"He already told me I'm not allowed to bring in anything else covered in blood."

Prentiss' tone is nonchalant, but Aaron is relieved he is not the only one who notes the way her eyes are straying to the doorway when Morgan pries the chopstick from her hand.

The clock on the wall is an institutional white with black hands, and it reads after eleven when Spencer reappears. All his focus is on the map and the whiteboard. He takes up a violet marker, shakes it, and proceeds to write a series of numbers.

"What's that, genius?" Morgan ambles over to stand at Spencer's shoulder.

"A code Gabriel gave me," he says, and he is done writing, and he caps the marker and turns it in his hand. "I just need to think-do we have any coffee?"

J.J. presses a cup into his hand. "They're out of sugar."

He grimaces, but accepts the cup anyway. "Thank you."

The discussion is less frank, with Spencer in the room, and Prentiss is circulating and closing folders over the most graphic crime scene photos. As though they are not already seared into Spencer's memory.

Spencer is balanced on the table, right leg curled up beneath him while he flexes and kneads the left, when he straightens. "Guys, guys, guys!"

The numbers, when written backwards, are a series of latitudes and longitudes that correspond to addresses owned by Maribella Patterson, mother of Nicholas Patterson,who is nineteen and Gabriel's boyfriend of three years.

"There's only one location in the comfort zone we delineated earlier," Spencer concludes. He circles the address with black.

Before midnight they have SWAT ready, black shapes ghosting around and above the suburban house. Music shakes the walls and reverberates through Aaron's bones. And even though they are in the desert and the night should be cool, the heat is enough to make his skin tight and painful.

They find Patterson, and three other, older men, and a body too dessicated to identify, at a glance, as male or female, much less of any age.

Benjamin Good shrieks when the paramedics transfer him to a gurney.

Patterson's mouth twists and his cheeks shine in the artificial daylight of the police and first responder lights. "This is your fault!" He is crying. "He never loved me the way he should, because he had those _perfect fucking photos,_ not even when I took them away!"

He coils back against the hands leading him, trying to throw them them off. "I'll kill you, you hear me?"

Spencer, from his place slightly back and to the left of Aaron's shoulder, is white and silent. This night, the heavy blazon of FBI on the Kevlar strapped around him fails to grant him more substance.

The SWAT team leader is only a few feet away. She wipes sweat from her face as she stares after Patterson. Aaron's shoulders relax when the woman's gaze on Spencer is free of condemnation, or avarice. She nods once, and says, "Welcome to hell."

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Aaron has the dream for the first time three nights after their return to Quantico.<p>

_A look of pleasure and pain masks Spencer's face, and he writhes against the bindings at wrist and thigh and ankle. "Aaron," he murmurs. Pants. "Aaron." Blown pupils and swollen lips, Spencer arcs away from the ties to capture his mouth in a kiss._

_This kiss, this mouth, he has had so many times before. They are _his, _in the same way Jack is his, the way Haley never was. Aaron turns his head as he feels the jut of Spencer's hip bone where he grinds. "Never let you go, Spence."_

_"Aaron. I know. I know."_

_He jams two fingers in, though Spencer is unprepared, and gives a twist that crosses the line of almost into brutal._

_Spencer catches his breath, before a high thin sound slips past his lips. His eyes flash to Aaron's. "Do it again. Please."_

_So Aaron does, a quick jerk to empty Spencer and then four fingers. He pumps, twice, harsh, and somehow neither of them mind that he is tearing Spencer._

_Spencer is saying Aaron's name, over and over and over until the breaths run together like sobs, and the slender length of his cock twitches against his belly and drips pre-come. He pulls against the bindings holding his wrists above his head._

_"You know they won't come loose," Aaron whispers. "You know I tied them."_

_That is all it takes._

_His limbs pull as though they would fold in, and Spencer screws his eyes shut._

_Aaron squeezes a hand around the base of Spencer's cock._

_"P_lease."_ He shudders back against the old cracked violet silk pillow. "Please let me come."_

_"Not yet," he whispers. In this place and this time, whispers are all that fit. The next kiss is more about teeth than lips and tongue, as he bites his way into Spencer's mouth._

_The man beneath him groans surrender. Fights his tongue into Aaron's mouth, where they duel over secrets._

_He is as breathless as Spencer when he breaks away. "I'll let you come," he promises, "But first you need to answer one question for me."_

_"Anything."_

_"Could you say no, if you needed to?"_

_He counters the words with swift, sure strokes of Spencer's cock. Spencer fights, and bites his lip, and groans again. "Of course, Aaron. Always."_

Aaron's eyes fly open, but he is not in time to bring his body under control. A strangled sound escapes his throat as his orgasm washes over him.


	3. Chapter 3

See Chapter One for disclaimers.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

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><p><em>We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.<br>-_Francois Rabelais

* * *

><p>His phone rings. The green light of his alarm clock blinks; the time is after three a.m.<p>

"J.J." He hopes the reason for his self-loathing is not apparent in his voice.

A pause. "It's Morgan, Hotch."

He edges up in bed, away from the cooling stickiness at his groin, and scrubs a hand over his face. "Morgan what's wrong? Is there a case?"

"Nothing's wrong," Morgan speaks quickly. "But I haven't seen Reid all weekend. He's not answering his phone."

Unspoken between them rises the specter of Georgia. With a sinking feeling, Aaron realizes there are unaccounted hours, hours where none of them were watching and Spencer was-_must have been_-alone with Gabriel. The addresses that led them to Benjamin Good could have come from no other source.

"He probably just needs some time alone," is his slow response. The navy sheets protest his movement. _Noli tangere_ has always been the BAU strategy with Spencer. Gideon's strategy, until the reason is lost in the passing of years. The image of a jessed hawk doubtless caught his fancy. A dangerous predator returning, flight after flight, to the wrist of his handler.

This strategy seems now very stupid.

"I thought he might be with you."

"Why would he be with me?" He is tired. Haley's voice, or his own, sneers, _Some profiler._

Morgan takes a breath. "Get back to sleep, Hotch. Whatever's up with him, you know he'll be in the office tomorrow."

The next morning, the deep grey of Aaron's suit is complemented by a burgundy tie ostensibly from Jack three Christmases ago. Morgan is there, balanced against Prentiss' desk with one ankle hooked over the other. He looks up with a smile from something Prentiss says to shake a pastry bag in Aaron's direction. Now that they no longer have to pay homage to the Mojave, Morgan's sleeves are long.

"Hey, Hotch," he calls. "Apricot Danish, you want one?"

_Not particularly._ After the images of last night's sleep, Aaron may not want to eat for a week. He appreciates the sentiment, however, that permits him to wait in the bullpen for Spencer's arrival.

The circling is similar to what happened after Georgia. _How long will it take to die away this time? _The injury seems more terrible for the insidious way it has crept among them.. They are too late to rescue Spencer, years and years and years too late..

Just as they were too late one time before.

When Spencer arrives, it is one minute before the hour. Aaron swallows a rubbery leaf of philo without chewing as Spencer moves in a flurry of limbs and whips the messenger bag over his head. Today he is wearing a cardigan, even though it is August, and he keeps his sunglasses firmly over his eyes.

Morgan's surveillance is pointed, as though he sees something Aaron cannot.

The signs that anything is wrong are less blatant than Aaron anticipated

"Danish, kid? I got them from that pastry shop down the street you were telling me about." He rattles the bag at Spencer.

"No, thanks, Morgan." Spencer presses a fingertip to the power button of his monitor. "I already had breakfast."

Without lifting his eyes from what he is doing he raises a coffee cup, some constitution of proof.

Rossi steps to the railing of the catwalk. He looks as alarmed as Morgan..

They leave for a case in northern Virginia that afternoon. They drive, and Rossi is gritting his teeth while Spencer recites the second volume of Asimov's Foundation Trilogy, effectively forestalling any attempt at conversation.

Aaron bites back a groan when Prentiss glances sideways at interjects, far too casual, "Reid, what did you think of the parallels between Star Wars and _Foundation and Empire?_"

Something closer to happiness informs Spencer's breathless little laugh. Not until his voice spirals up, "X, take this upgrade to your armor!"does Rossi mutter, where he leans against the window with his eyes resolutely shut, "Oh, God, smite me now."

Maybe Rossi is better than the rest of them at pretending nothing is ruined.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>"And maybe you need to pull your head out of your ass,"is Rossi's sharp reply, when they are blearily folded into the chairs in Aaron's motel room late that night.<p>

The scotch that is almost a dare against his father's memory was perhaps not the wisest thing to bring along. Not on this trip. "Oh, thank God,"Aaron had blurted, when he shuffled to the door and opened it at Rossi's knock. "You just saved me from drunk dialing Spencer Reid."

Rossi quirked an eyebrow as he stepped inside, closing the door and, with a glance at Aaron, fastening the chain. "Guess I didn't need to bring the good stuff. Mind if I catch up?"

Aaron was sure his gesture was not too broad as he indicated the plastic cups and ice bucket on the table. "Fuck,"he said, and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he fell back into his seat.

Now he stares at Rossi, and reiterates, "Fuck."

"A profound observation." Rossi watches Aaron over the rim of his glass, amber rippling with his exhale.

"You always were a snarky bastard." Aaron feels this is unfair, that he has to deal with Rossi's impatience now.

"Uh-huh. Aaron, you do know, this is not about you. It's not even about Reid. Not the person he is now. He's a competent FBI agent with multiple graduate degrees who can shoot a fly off the wall at fifty yards. I will not speak of his unfortunate taste in modern literary endeavors. Christ, Aaron, he's passed every psych evaluation the Bureau's ever thrown at him, and you don't think he's okay?"

He tries not to mind when Rossi tugs the scotch out of his hand and away from his glare. "Reid's managed to pass those tests when he's out of his mind on Dilaudid, I don't think they're a very accurate measure of his okayness."

Then, _then_ Aaron realizes what he has said, this open secret now laid bare by the SAIC, and he peers at Rossi with a small and mournful, "Shit."

Rossi's expression, as he takes the scotch and the good bourbon and pours them, both, all down the bathroom sink, is impossible to decipher. He retakes his seat by Aaron, and studies his fingers, before he shakes his head and speaks.

"Okay. There are three things wrong with what you've just told me. First of all, 'okayness'is not a word. Secondly, and this point expands upon my first, when you drink too much your vocabulary gets shot all to hell. You need to only drink when very close friends are with you. Thirdly-which I am, sit down-thirdly, I have been doing this job for a lot of years. When you mention _issues_, though, it doesn't take a profiler to catch on to certain things."

"What do you mean?" Aaron's voice is still small. The temper and jitteriness of the last of his withdrawal were past months before Rossi joined the team, and, to Aaron's watchful knowledge, there have been no subsequent falls. _He should be getting his five year coin in the next few months_.

Rossi shrugs. "His eyes get shifty when he's craving, and, if the case is really bad, sometimes he sort of pets the inside of his right elbow."

Aaron has never noticed this, and he thinks he has learned everything there is to know about Spencer Reid. He says as much. Rossi snorts.

"Staring isn't the same as observing, Aaron. What would be the first conclusion you would make about a young man who never rolls his sleeves above the inside of his elbows, no matter how hot, no matter how messy the case? _Especially_ someone as fastidious as Reid."

Aaron is glad Rossi holds The Powers That Be in a lively antipathy.

"Look, I don't know the particulars, and it's not that surprising. We work terrible hours in a job that gives new meaning to the phrase, _Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'intrate_. I admire him. I admire the hell out of him. What's that quote you like? Fairy tales do not tell children dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed."

"G.K. Chesterton." Aaron gives the attribution through lips that are numb. "Dave, it wasn't his fault. And what happened was sure as hell nothing like a fairy tale."

"Right. So if it wasn't his fault, it was yours? Geez, Aaron, I think this conversation is getting to be too much for me, or I need sleep, or you do, because that makes no logical fucking sense."

Rossi stands, and he takes the empty bottles so the cleaning staff will have one less thing to gossip about in the morning. "Get some sleep, Aaron, and talk to him. This is some whacked up shit."

"Watch your language,"he murmurs to Rossi as he holds the door open.

With a careful pat to his shoulder, as though Aaron feeling better is something he can unbalance, Rossi smirks. "Right back at ya."

And, _"Talk_ to him_,"_ comes the injunction as Aaron shuts the door.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Spencer has just returned from the Medical Examiner's office, where the exhumed femur and left costals-all that remains of a twenty-year past homicide victim, the case cold, no hope of being solved until the killer responsible started again last month-lay exposed on a metal table, when the first victim's mother comes in.<p>

Her bloodshot eyes, thin hair, and sagging clothes flesh out the impact of her words. "_She's dead, she's been dead for twenty _years_, you need to let her rest in peace."_

Aaron watches as she launches herself at Spencer, pummeling him, watches as his neck tightens as he battles not to flinch away. Watches as he catches her hands, firm, gentle, and leads her to a quiet spot.

Too many tragedies. Every time he lets Spencer go, something terrible happens. Aaron cannot help the way he hovers, listening, ready to step in if he deems rescue necessary.

But Spencer proved long ago he can take care of himself.

"Justice doesn't mean much, now, but Jenny is telling us everything she can about the man who hurt her. And everything we learn is going to help us stop this from happening to someone else's daughter. Someone else's mother. Is there anything you can tell us-"

And in the guise of a sympathetic ear, Spencer is pulling out new information about a family friend never mentioned in connection with the old case, because he went to prison and the family just _never_ spoke of him.

Over the woman's sobbing shoulder, Spencer looks at Aaron, a look that imparts a clear message.

_I'm _fine_. Let me do my job._

Aaron fades back into the workings of the case.

Garcia takes less than five minutes to locate their killer, despite his changed name and the address he has failed to keep up with his parole officer.

"At least there's not a sexual component to these murders,"J.J. murmurs to Prentiss, where they are tearing down the evidence boards prior to leaving.

"Except the knife." Prentiss replies, snaps, "What?"when J.J. elbows her before she glimpses Aaron out of the corner of her eye. Both women focus carefully on the crime scene photos before them.

Aaron pretends not to understand. _And it's not like the knife as an instrument of rape is _Spencer's _demon_.

Not for the first time, he is glad.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Morgan gets the idea that they all need to relax.<p>

That is why Aaron finds himself pressed into a booth at the Auld Dubliner, the only bar in Virgina quiet enough for Spencer and interesting enough for Morgan, with Spencer a weight against his shoulder. Spencer taking a shot with a mutinous glint in his eye. Morgan has stuffed Spencer on the inside of the booth, and he is only half-joking when he says, "Hotch, don't let him run away."

Tonight J.J. and Garcia have commandeered the conversation.

"And then he says he wants a border collie! A border collie. What, I ask you, am I supposed to do with a border collie? My babies are transcendently silicon and binary code, not _organic_. Not that I don't love all of you,"Garcia hastens to add.. "I have no idea what to do with this request. J.J., you have to help me. Tell Kevin dogs poop."

"I'm sure he knows that, Garcia." J.J's beer has the lavender hue of the inhouse wheatberry malt. "You do well enough with Henry. I'm sure it would be fine."

"There is a _huge_ difference in responsibility here. This would be much worse." At J.J.'s look, Garcia says, "No! No, no, no. I mean, with Henry, I get to spoil him and be his all-around-magical fairy Godmother, and then _give him back_. You're the one who has to deal with potty training and refusals to bathe and other ucky stuff."

Spencer looks confused. "Henry's very good about taking his bath, I don't-"

"Spencer,"Garcia says, warmly, right before she raps his knuckles.

"Ow." He withdraws with an aggrieved air.

The banter flows on. Aaron watches the guilty way Spencer turns the empty shot glass in his hand. "It was only one drink,"he says, to which Spencer gives a pained laugh and an awkward, "Yeah."

There are many things they have not said, and Morgan seems to notice the change between them. He snags Prentiss out of the booth with a, "C'mon, Princess. Let's dance."

That is all the invitation Garcia needs, and soon the three of them are grinding back and forth across the dance floor. "No,"Rossi holds up a hand when J.J. reaches for him. "I am not doing that. I might break something."

"Like your dignity? Don't be a baby."

So, grumbling, Rossi stomps off after J.J., unable to entirely hide the pleasure lifting each edge of his mouth.

Aaron watches Spencer watching the dancers. The younger man is pensive when he speaks. "In 1985, French sociologist Michel Maffesoli coined the phrase _urban tribe_ to describe the pseudofamilial groups that came together out of shared interests. Usually members are between 25 and 45, but obviously there are some deviations from that standard."

Sipping the lime tonic he has ordered, because he has escaped drunk dialing Spencer Reid once and may not be so lucky again, Aaron replies, "But Maffesoli's definition also stated that these family groups would have interactions weighted towards emotion, not logic, a common interest instead of a common goal. That conceptualization of urban tribe as a descriptor of nontraditional family units leaves something to be desired."

With a glance through lowered eyelashes, Spencer turns the empty glass in his hands again. At last he says, "Aaron, what do you want?"

What does he want? Aaron stares. _I'm not ready to answer that question,_ he does not say.

_I want to feel the warmth of you against me, I want to watch the way your lips part when I lean close. I want to watch sunlight kiss down your neck when you wake late some morning._

_I want to catch the essence of you, the smell of coffee and old books, in the room you have just left._

_I want to watch time deepen the smile lines around your eyes._

There are other things Aaron wants that are far less poetic-he has had the dream four times that he remembers.

A tempest dims Spencer's eyes. He rests his left palm on the back of Aaron's right, there where it rests on the table, and takes the question back. "I know what I want."

"I-what about everything that happened?"

"Be specific about which everything, Aaron. If you're referring to Gabriel, well-that was over and done a long time ago."

Aaron is troubled, because while an eidetic memory may have specificity for the printed word, he has seen the terrible nature of Spencer's memory demonstrated before. The many times he has recited words only heard, lengthy monologues, verbatim, sometimes in languages other than English. The way they have, over the years, gradually introduced Spencer to touch, until now he is the one initiating a handclasp.

_His greatest affinity may be for visual stimuli, but his mind obviously locks onto auditory and kinesthetic stimuli as well._

And with what Aaron wants?

"I don't want to be like Gabriel,"he says, a nonanswer that contains enough of the truth to keep Spencer's hand on his.

_And if I told you I dream of you, bound as you were in those pictures. Would you leave? _His voice is hoarse. "Never do anything against conscience."

"Albert Einstein," Spencer bites out, and draws his hand away from Aaron's. A space of cold lies between them. "As long as the world shall last, there shall be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever."

Stricken, Aaron raises his head. "Clarence Darrow."

"_Aaron_,"the name is a whisper, an invocation. "Help me bring me back to myself."

J.J. is gleeful in the way she decides to pick up Jack from his aunt's for a sleepover. Garcia and Morgan and Prentiss carpooled, and (Garcia almost manages to look apologetic) Garcia has a crate she is returning for the putative border collie taking up the fourth passenger seat, "So you'll have to drive Reid home, okay, Hotch? Pleasant dreams, Woobie Spencer!"

With a hint of disbelief, Rossi stares after the backs of their departing colleagues. "That is the most inept foray into matchmaking I have ever had the misfortune to witness." He turns to catch the fade of the furious blush on Spencer's face, and his lip curls up. "Or not. You two have a good night."

He walks off with a mutter of something that sounds suspiciously like, "Several times."

Spencer finishes straightening his hair where Morgan ruffled it. "What's a woobie?"

Aaron finds himself equally bemused. "I have no idea."

"Could we call Garcia and ask?"

"Spencer."

"Hmm?"

"We are not going to call Garcia and ask for the definition of woobie."

"What? Oh." Then, when his lips are free again, Spencer says, "_Oh._"

* * *

><p><em>Noli tangere<em> - hands off

_Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate_ - "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." -Dante


	4. Chapter 4

See Chapter One for disclaimer.

Chapter Four: A lot of sex. A bit of plot.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

* * *

><p><em><em>Pleasure is a sort of oblivion, a forgetfulness. Pain is remembrance<em>._  
>-Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh<p>

* * *

><p>There remains another question, though, between them unasked.<p>

Aaron feels uncertain and fumbling once more as he stands in the foyer of Spencer's apartment. There are no lights, save for the gentle wash of street lamps from below.

Spencer had coiled around himself on the ride over, running the fingertips of his left hand over the seatbelt. Body so tense with excitement he almost thrummed.

Now he turns, all grace and surety as he rests a hand on Aaron's waist, curls the other around Aaron's neck to pull him close for the first kiss that is about more than circumstance or opportunity.

A parting of lips makes Aaron answer, raising his own hands to Spencer's side, to run through the cropped hair and almost grip, almost pull. For a few breaths they share nothing more substantial than air.

"Spencer," he says, against the hands that lead him to a gentle thump against the wall, "Spencer, I need to ask you something."

"Of course, Aaron. Anything."

The uncanny parallel to the dream shivers on the back of his neck. "Can you-if you need to-can you say _No_?"

Spencer has dipped his head only enough to ghost his lips down Aaron's neck, and the muscles in his back twitch. A breathless laugh, not happy. "I don't know how to answer that."

The arch of his cheekbone brushes Aaron's right ear. "If I say yes, what does that show? If I say no to prove I can..."

For a moment they stand together in the dark, and breathe.

"The most honest answer is that I don't know," Spencer says. "You'll have to trust me. Trust yourself."

"I don't know if I can."

"Could you ever hurt me?"

With that answer, Aaron does what he has wanted to, push-pulls Spencer around until he and the wall are holding Spencer up, knocks Spencer's knees aside until he can press his thigh, hip, between Spencer's legs, and _take_.

Not the bite-kiss of his dream, but just as good. Almost. He dives into the cavern of Spencer's mouth, and there is a low groan as the other man's joints seem to loosen against him. Something-Spencer does _something_ with his tongue that takes Aaron away from himself.

Want surges through him, hardens all his body. A sound escapes his throat as he mauls the jaw beneath his lips. The body pinned and fighting-

Instantly he pulls back. Spencer hangs and pants, hands gripping Aaron's shoulders as he lists against Aaron's front. Before Aaron can apologize, there is a low chuckle. "Why did you stop?"

"You were-"

"I liked it, Aaron." Wide dark pupils glance up, the wry quality to the quirk of Spencer's lips the only concession to the necessity of the explanation. "Hold me down."

Again unspoken, _Don't let me go._

He tries not to be hesitant in his movement. His arms are abruptly awkward, seemingly superfluous limbs.

With another chuckle, tinged with a hint of surprise, Spencer takes more of his own weight. "But can we go to my bedroom? I really don't want to have sex with you for the first time on the hallway carpet."

Something tickles at the back of Aaron's throat. When he opens his mouth, a laugh surprises them both.

Together they clear books from the bed, a low affair covered with a pattern suggestive of the Middle East, and Spencer pulls him in after turning back off the lamp.

"I thought you were afraid of the dark," Aaron murmurs, between kisses that are polite once more. They have time, enough, and he helps Spencer pull his undershirt over his head. Shadow diminishes the scars Foyet left. Spencer's fingers ghost over them, catalogue them, move on to the rest of Aaron Hotchner.

"I _am_," Spencer responds with a snort. "I'm not going to let that fear define me."

If Aaron feels the swell of scars lumping the flesh over Spencer's back, he spares only a moment for fury at Peter Gabriel. Not now. He will have time for his fury tomorrow.

Spencer backs into the mattress, sitting and pulling Aaron with him. He bumps his chin against Aaron's until he turns.

This kiss is less polite. The mouth moving beneath his is firm, insistent, issuing protests if Aaron moves too far away.

Together they discover that while Spencer does like to be held down-a hard grip to his shoulder sparks a most intense result-he cannot have Aaron hold his left hand. There is no, _Stop_, or _Don't_, but Spencer tenses in a different way when Aaron presses the back of his left wrist into the pillow above his head.

"Shh," he says around the apologies. "Hold the headboard, or the sheet. Touch me. We're fine." Until the tension melts back into the aching almost-fight.

Every caress is a promise. _I'm here, I'm not leaving, I will never let you go._

Spencer solves one problem by tucking his left hand under the pillow behind his head, and bites his lip when Aaron rises up, one hand pinning Spencer's right, his body forestalling movement from strong thighs. "Do you want this?"

A nod is the only response.

There is no teasing, only a thrust of a single finger.

Aaron's cock bobs, hard against his abdomen. He shifts for a better angle. With a careful searching he finds that bump of tissue, sensitive beneath his finger as he strokes.

A silent cry opens Spencer's mouth. He arcs back against the pillows, hips jerking, his knees bending as his body tries to twist farther into Aaron's touch.

Aaron fills that mouth, his tongue demanding, ravishing. He loves the breathless pants through Spencer's nose. He starts to grind against the angularity beneath him..

When he crooks his finger again, a high sound hums through Aaron's mouth. He swallows the cry, and pulls back to see Spencer's eyes, open, all pupil. "More," comes the low, hungry murmur.

Thus Aaron discovers a new want.

_I want to know the joy of how you whisper _More_, now, again, for the rest of my life._

"Not yet," he whispers, because whispers are all that fit in this time and place. "I'm not ready to find out if pain is part of this equation."

Lips pressed in disappointment, Spencer watches him, watches the glint Aaron knows his eyes cast. "Let's-"

And because with this, at least, he is starting to feel safe, he tries the bite-kiss from his dream. Teeth scraping, clashing, until Spencer's mouth is his. When he catches Spencer's lower lip between his teeth and pulls, he knows he was right: another low call sounds, and Spencer turns his head to increase the pull of flesh.

Sweat is a slickness between them. The movements of Aaron's hips grow erratic, and he releases Spencer's hand to attend to both their cocks, twists his finger again in distraction.

Spencer reaches after him, grips his wrist and guides him to pin Spencer again.

_Alright_.

He drops all the weight of his body over Spencer, not moving the hand holding Spencer's wrist or the finger pressing inside, Spencer cannot move at all, the weight will be such that his chest will barely expand enough for breath.

"Aaron, Aaron, Aaron," come the pants, short, airless. Dazed eyes seek his, and Aaron takes his mouth again, pressing down, unrelenting.

His body shudders, once, twice, and he comes in white streaks over Spencer's chest.

Wanting to close his eyes, Aaron adds a second finger, no warning. The shock is enough for that pleasure-pain mask to flash across Spencer's face, the pleasure-pain of Aaron's dream, and Spencer is coming, streaks that mingle with Aaron's, and they fall together in a sated heap.


	5. Chapter 5

See Chapter One for disclaimer.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

* * *

><p>Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote, "La memoria del corazón elimina los malos recuerdos y magnifica los buenos, y gracias a ese artificio, logramos sobrellevar el pasado."<p>

Or,

_The memory of the heart eliminates evil memories and magnifies the good, and thanks to this artifice we manage to overcome the past._

* * *

><p>Later, though not much, Spencer sighs and burrows, seemingly trying to find some space between Aaron's side and the mattress.<p>

The only light comes from the streetlamps. The dark, the fear he refuses to allow to define him.

With a sinking heart, Aaron reaches for the lamp, flooding the small paneled room with light in an attempt to prove that he is _wrong_. That Spencer staged this scenario out of desire.

Not fear.

He _was_ wrong, he notes. Relief is absent from the other's face, from the slow blink of his eyelids. He goes very still. The arm wrapped around Aaron's chest shifts, and then begins to withdraw. "Ah, I'll just-"

"Reid." Spencer stills again. His eyes are fixed on Aaron's ear and his lips press together. Aaron curses himself. "Spencer," he corrects, his tone less demanding. "Let me see."

"I don't know what you're-"

"Let me see, Spencer, they're only scars, they haven't changed who you are."

"_But they have_!" is the low, anguished response, and Spencer turns onto his back, his right arm coiled over those marks that trail over his stomach. Heedless of the ejaculate smeared on his front, heedless of the vulnerability of this exposure with his cock limp and unprotected.

"What makes you think you're a different person just because you have scars?"

Spencer lifts his left hand, runs the fingertips in that same restless pattern against his lips. "It's what they mean."

"What do they mean?"

More silence. Aaron waits. Then, "They mean I _couldn't say _no."

"There was a gag in your mouth," Aaron is impelled to point out. "Of course you couldn't."

"You don't understand." Spencer turns his head, and Aaron realizes in the instant before he turns away that he is crying.

This is the third time, in all the years of knowing Spencer Reid, that Aaron has seen him weep.

"There was-if I needed Gabriel to stop, he left the fingers of my left hand free so I could snap them three times. And he did, leave them free, I mean.

"I just couldn't," Spencer breathes. "There's something wrong with the way I'm wired."

Aaron thinks. "Did you enjoy what we did, just now?"

"I would think that was obvious."

"Friction can induce orgasm, Spencer. You've studied rape-trauma. You know that. Did you _enjoy_ what we did?"

"Yes. Of course."

"What did you like?"

Spencer turns his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I-you. The way you held me down. Your fingers stimulating my prostate." Now he blushes, and he turns and meets Aaron's eyes. "The way you kissed me."

A smirk steals across Aaron's face before he can catch himself at the way Spencer's eyes dilate. "I'm glad to know my performance met with your approval."

"Of course, Aaron. Always."

Nothing is perfect, even between them. But they have carved a place. A beginning.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>It's two cases and three weeks after that first night that the team returns to the Auld Dubliner. Aaron and Spencer are pressed into the wall on one side of the booth, "Because there's not enough room with Lady Alice for you to take the whole seat to yourselves!"<p>

Spencer is a warmth against Aaron's side. This time, the drink in his hand is only orange juice and seltzer.

"How did you convince them to let you bring a dog in here?" Rossi sounds curious.

"Do you not know me? Do you not realize that no task is too impossible to be beyond the reach of my goddess-like powers?" Garcia turns to Morgan expectantly, Lady Alice, a border collie puppy with one blue eye, and one green, and a fuchsia bandanna cushioned on her lap. "Now, spill, my Adonis! You claim there were some kinky happenings under your very noses on this last case?"

Morgan chokes on his drink but leans over to whisper to Garcia obligingly.

He can tell Spencer is having the same difficulty he is-an inability to recall anything they might have done that crossed the line into inappropriate-by the way Spencer's shoulder turns slightly.

Disappointment rapidly fades to ire as Garcia listens to what Morgan has to say. "_That is not kinky!" _she stage-whispers.

Aaron sighs. Her whisper could not have carried more clearly over the conversations welling around them had she tried. Perhaps she did.

"But you didn't hear all of it," Morgan stresses, and this time keeps his voice above a whisper. "When Hotch gave the profile, he said the unsub was submissive, but not unintelligent or weak."

"Ohh." Garcia looks at Aaron and Spencer pressed together. "Spencer? Really?"

The fingertips of Spencer's left hand begin to trace patterns, a Mobius strip Aaron thinks, over the top of the table between them. "That was Aaron's profile of the killer, a man who was systematically destroying survivors of a shooting at his school ten years before. Not me."

"They do say," Rossi's attention seems wholly devoted to his drink, "That a profile reveals as much about the profiler as the subject."

"Hotch profiling sex." Testing the idea, Garcia looks at him and nods. "Definitely kinky. A very kinky kink."

He only modulates the Glare of Death when Spencer elbows him. Garcia deflates anyway, with a small, "Very kinky, _sir_."

"Garcia, will you marry me?"

"You might be sorry you asked, Dave," Aaron murmurs when a Garcia's lips curve up.

"Oh, no." She shakes her head at Rossi. "I'm taken."

Instead of grabbing Morgan, however, or possibly Prentiss, who is next closest, Garcia pats Lady Alice's head and starts to laugh.

Morgan pelts everyone with popcorn until they join, everyone but Spencer, who bats the fluff away.

"Aw, poor woobie."

"I am not a woobie!"

"Do you even know what a woobie is?"

Spencer huffs.

"Prentiss, he's not a woobie, I shouldn't have said that. It's obvious he's one of the heroes."

"How do you go from woobie to hero?"Aaron asks.

"A woobie is a victim. Cuddlable but helpless. Heroes, on the other hand," and there is something fleeting and not-happy in Garcia's smile, "Always have a hand in their own sufferings."

"Where do you _get_ this stuff?" Rossi starts a harangue about the decay of civilization as they know it. But Spencer, Spencer's face softens, for the first time in weeks, and there is nothing tentative in the smile he flashes Garcia.

The smile, the laughter that swells around them, these things are ephemeral. Mutable. But there are some things-Aaron drapes his arm around Spencer's shoulders, and thinks, _We're going to be fine._

* * *

><p><strong>Finis<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Please take a moment to review!<br>_


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